Colors of Love
by Bellephont17
Summary: A series of one-shots based on the theory that there are six types of love. Where do these six types make appearances in Supernatural?
1. Intro

**Hey everyone. I realize this is not my current work-in-progress, but I had to write this. I was on Stumbleupon and discovered a Wiki page on the six types of love. I realized I needed to write a one-shot for each type based on the Supernatural character relationships. So . . . here it is!**

Love styles are modus operandi of how people love, originally developed by John Lee (1973,[1] 1988[2]). He identified six basic love styles—also known as "colours" of love—that people use in their interpersonal relationships.


	2. Eros

(**EROS **– a passionate physical and emotional love based on aesthetic enjoyment; stereotype of romantic love)

Sam sat on the couch in his apartment's living area, comfortable in nothing but a pair of baggy sweatpants. The television was burbling news in the background like white noise as he turned the page of _The Fundamentals of Law_.

"Popcorn?" Jess shouted from the kitchenette.

"No thanks," Sam called back.

"You know you want it!" came the cheerful reply, and Sam smiled and shook his head, knowing it was useless to argue with her.

A few minutes later, the sound of popping kernels and the smell of hot butter wafted through the apartment, and Jess came out with the bowl. She had on one of Sam's pajama shirts, her hair wet from the shower and making little dark patches on the gray fabric. She sat down next to him and he wrapped his arm around her, feeling her slim, soft body warm underneath the billows of the shirt.

"You're still reading that stupid book?" she jokingly complained.

"It's not stupid," Sam argued, trying to keep his place marked as she attempted to tug it away from him. "It's research."

"Your finals are _over_, genius," she grunted, yanking it free from his grasp and dropping it on the floor. "No more studying."

Slipping backwards, Sam grinned as Jess shimmied closer until her nose was inches from his. "Are you going to make me?" he asked innocently.

Jess kissed him. "Do I have to?" she asked, laying her blond head on his chest.

Sam chuckled, running his fingers through her curls. "I love you so much, Jessica."

"Hmm. You only use 'Jessica' when you want something. Do you want something, Sam?"

Oh, God, yes he did. And it wasn't popcorn.


	3. Ludus

(**LUDUS **– a love that is played as a game or sport; conquest; may have multiple partners at once)

Dean parallel parked the Impala in front of the Pink Slipper bar. The girl in the passenger seat . . . he'd forgotten her name . . . smiled seductively and laced her tight leather shirt back up. "You've got lipstick all over your face," she noted, unbuckling her seatbelt and leaning forward. "Come here and I'll get it off for you."

Dean leaned forward, allowing her to lick off the residual lipstick from their earlier make out session that had taken place in the backseat. First time he'd ever had lipstick licked off him, he thought. This was interesting. She knew how to turn him on, that was for certain.

"All better," she said, white teeth flashing in the dim car.

"Great, let's go," Dean turned off the engine and they got out of the car.

The Pink Slipper was one of those girly bars that . . . damn it, what was her name? . . . said she frequented a lot. Dean didn't really like it, but he was really too drunk to care. If there were girls and whiskey then he was happy.

They found a table, and the Date With No Name wandered off to the bar. A waitress walked by and Dean casually slapped her jean-skirted ass as she passed. She looked back with a laugh, winked, and walked on.

"You're bold," said a new voice, husky with cigarette smoke and too much beer. Dean turned to see a dark-haired woman, easily ten years older than him, come around from behind his chair and sit down at his table.

"Yes I am," Dean asserted.

"And I'm drunk."

Dean thought about this for a minute. "Me too."

"This could make for a _very_ compromising situation," the woman chuckled, laying her hand on his.

When The Date With No Name came back to her table five minutes later, Dean was nowhere to be seen.


	4. Storge

(**STORGE** – an affectionate love that slowly develops from friendship, based on similarity)

Castiel looked up at the stars and breathed out, his breath fogging in front of his face. It was a beautiful clear night.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Sam said softly, taking a sip of his beer.

"It is," Castiel agreed. "Do you and Dean do this often?"

"Not often enough," Dean offered, coming around from the back of the Impala with a freshly-made sandwich in one hand and a bottle in the other. "Saving the world tends to take a big chunk out of our agenda." He climbed onto the Impala's hood and leaned back against the windshield, taking a bite out of his midnight snack.

Castiel turned back to the sky. It was strange to think that these boys had only ever seen this side of Heaven. He found himself thinking of ways that he could take them with him to witness the other side, the side where rainbows connected each star and angels sang to make them glow brighter. They would like that.

But there was something to this side of Heaven – the stillness, the absence of color, the calmness – that was just as beautiful. Maybe even more so. "I realize that you regard this as a somewhat sacred familial tradition," Castiel said suddenly. "I'm honored you decided to invite me. Thank you."

"Hey, no problem, Cas," Sam said.

"You're one of the gang now," Dean added. "Consider this initiation."

Castiel didn't smile, because that wasn't something angels did. But as he looked at them, he felt his heart grow warmer, even as the night got colder. He was one of them. He belonged.

Yes, he definitely liked this side of Heaven better.


	5. Pragma

(**PRAGMA** – love that is driven by the head, not the heart; undemonstrative)

Twelve-year-old Sam watched as his dad pulled out another bottle of beer from the kitchenette's mini fridge. John Winchester dragged his feet as he walked back to the living area, flopping into the only chair and turning the television back on.

Maybe now wasn't the right time to ask him a math question, but Dean didn't know the answer to it and Sam had it on good authority that this particular question was going to be on tomorrow's exam. Drawing himself up, he crossed the short distance between his and Dean's bedroom and the living area and approached his dad's chair.

"Dad?"

"Not now, Sam." John didn't look away from the TV.

"I'm sorry, Dad, but I just need to ask a quick question."

John slammed the beer bottle against the armrest so that the liquid inside splattered out over Sam's math worksheet. "I said not now," he growled. "Leave me alone, dammit."

Sam bit his lip and retreated back to his room, slamming the door behind him. Dean looked up from where he lay on the bed, thumbing through a skin magazine. "What is it, Sammy?"

"Dad doesn't care about us," Sam announced, slapping the paper down on the room's single desk and flopping on his own bed. "He just doesn't care."

"That's ridiculous, of course he does."

"Then why doesn't he ever talk to us?"

"Because he's tired," Dean said, going back to his magazine. "You're too little to understand."

"I'm twelve years old, Dean. I get it."

"No, you don't." Dean put the magazine aside and sat up. "Sammy, look at me. Dad loves us. He just doesn't show it all the time, but he does. Hell, he has to – we're his sons."


	6. Mania

(**MANIA **– obsessive love; experience great emotional highs and lows; very possessive and often jealous lovers)

Mary had been everything. After her death, John had gone to pieces. He could feel the missing spaces where those pieces used to have been. He could feel them every time he looked at his sons. In a way he blamed them for her death, even though he knew in his heart that it was irrational to do so. If he had not been worried about them, if he had not been compelled to save Sam and Dean first, he could have gotten Mary off that ceiling. He should never have left the nursery, he should have stayed and gotten her down first thing. It should have been the first thing he had done.

But regrets wouldn't help him now. Nothing would help him now, except finding her killer, finding whatever son of a bitch had pinned her up there and set her on fire. It was all he could think about, all he could dream about. After every nightmare he would open his eyes to find her gaunt, pleading face staring at him from above the motel bed, and each morning it was what he would promise his beleaguered reflection in the bathroom mirror. He would find the demon.

Until then, he could do his best to appease her memory. By taking care of her children. By making sure they were safe. By proving to her that he had no regard for his own life by plunging blindly after anything with teeth and claws. By killing as many evil sons of bitches as he could possibly find. Anything to fill the hole. Anything to put Mary to rest.


	7. Agape

**Because I can't say it any better than they can . . . **

(**AGAPE** – selfless altruistic love)

"I would die for him in a second." "You're my big brother. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you." "I couldn't live with you dead." "I don't care what it takes, I'm going to save you." "I'm here. Sammy, I'm here. I'm not going to leave you." "I've got your back." "It's like I had one job. Just one job."

"If we're going down, we're going down together."


End file.
